I tried my best tokeep her supplied with cough drops, but it was tono avail. It was as though I wasn't there atall.

That is also rather how I feel about my role as one ofthe translators ofthe play— as if I wasn't there atall. Maksym Kurochkin, now— Holy Moses! as my father used tosay— what ajob he did!

I enlisted Max towork with me ona translation ofthis play well over ayear ago as part ofa project I was (and am still) involved incalled New American Plays forRussia. It was funded bythe U.S. Embassy inMoscow as part ofthe Bilateral Presidential Commission andits American Seasons program. I say none ofthis inan attempt toimpress anyone inany way, but rather it offers me thechance toexpress gratitude where gratitude is due, andto grant anyone who wishes it thefull right tosling mud my way. Yes. That's right. I am biased. If you don't trust aword I say here, doubt away toyour heart's content!

Maksym Kurochkin. One ofthe most accomplished, innovative, intelligent, witty andtalented writers Russia has put forth inthe last decade anda half. I've written about him plenty. I've worked with him several times, usually translating his plays intoEnglish.

But here I found myself ina completely new symbiosis. Holding before us Adam Rapp's fragile yet scorching text, we poked around inits nooks andcrannies, looking forways tomake it spring tolife inRussian. I offered Max various possibilities foreach phrase, explained double entendres, anddescribed where Rapp was playing with conventions, undermining them or blowing them out ofthe water. Once we got through theentire text— it took us numerous sessions oftwo tothree hours ata time— Max took themess we had accrued and, rather like ajealous dog with abone, disappeared intothe confines ofhis private work space where I lost touch with him forsome time.

Two months later, voila! I received bye-mail atext that made me gasp with its beautiful rhythms, its linguistic music, its wit, its inventiveness and, not least ofall, its sensitivity toRapp's original. Adam Rapp was all over this translation— it was his play, his monologue casting challenges atmen andGod alike. It was also very much Kurochkin, it had thesubstance, thecontrol andthe playfulness that always mark his work.

There wasn't theslightest hint left that I ever had anything todo with it. That is what agreat job Max did offorging aRussian text that does not rise up fromRapp's play like astencil, but rather stands alongside it with thesame pride, thesame swagger andthe same vulnerability.

I have worked with Kama, too, often formonths or even years. When, tomy amazement, he told me inSeptember that he had begun rehearsing "Nocturne," I think I muttered something silly, like, "If I can be ofassistance, don't hesitate tocall."